Authors: J.A. Jance
“I suppose so,” Ali said.
Without another word, Anna Lee Ashcroft grasped the handle of a small china bell and gave it a sharp ring. Almost immediately a man appeared bearing a tray—a silver tray with a silver tea service on it. Remembering the scene now, Ali couldn’t help but wonder if that man and the sprite who had delivered that morning’s envelope weren’t one and the same—albeit a few decades older.
The man had carefully placed the tea service on the table in front of Anna Lee. She had leaned forward and picked up a cup. “Sugar?” she asked, filling the cup to the brim and handing it over with a surprisingly steady hand.
Ali nodded.
“One lump or two?”
“Two, please.”
“Milk?”
“No, thank you.”
Arabella moved silently to the foreground and began deftly placing finger sandwiches and what Ali would later recognize as petit fours onto delicately patterned china plates. Mrs. Ashcroft said nothing more until the butler—at least that’s what Ali assumed he was—had retreated back the way he had come, disappearing behind a pair of swinging doors into what Ali assumed must lead to a hallway or maybe the kitchen.
Ali juggled cup, saucer, napkin, and plate and hoped she wasn’t doing something terribly gauche while Anna Lee Ashcroft poured two additional cups—one for her daughter and one for herself.
“I don’t have a college education, either,” Anna Lee said at last. “In my day young women of my social standing weren’t encouraged to go off to college. When Arabella came along, her father sent her off to finishing school in Switzerland, but that was it. Furthering her education beyond that would have been unseemly.”
No comment from Ali seemed called for, so she kept quiet and concentrated on not dribbling any tea down the front of her new silk blouse.
“But just because my daughter and I don’t have the benefit of a higher education,” Anna Lee continued, “doesn’t mean we think it’s unimportant, right, Arabella?”
Arabella nodded but said nothing. Sipping her tea, she seemed content to let her mother do the bulk of the talking, but there was something in the daughter’s wary silence that made Ali uneasy.
“You must be wondering why you’ve been asked to come here today,” Anna Lee continued.
“Yes,” Ali said. “I am.”
“This is the first time I’ve done this,” Anna Lee said, “so it may seem a bit awkward. I’ve been told that most of the time announcements of this nature are made at class night celebrations or at some other official occasion, but I wanted to do it this way. In private.”
Ali was still mystified.
“I’ve decided to use some of my inheritance from my mother to establish a scholarship in her honor, the Amelia Dougherty Askins Scholarship, to benefit poor but smart girls from this area. You’ve been selected to be our first recipient—as long as you go on to school, that is.”
Ali was stunned. “A scholarship?” she managed, still not sure she had heard correctly. “You’re giving me a scholarship?”
Anna Lee Ashcroft nodded. “Not quite a ‘full ride’ as they say,” she added dryly. “What you’ll get from us is enough for tuition, books, room, and some board. If your parents really can’t help, you may need to work part time, but you shouldn’t have to put off starting. In fact, you should be able to go off to school this fall right along with all your classmates.”
And that’s exactly what Ali had done. The scholarship had made all the difference for her—it had made going on to college possible. And everything else in Ali’s life had flowed from there.
So Alison Larson Reynolds owed the Ashcrofts—owed them big. If Arabella Ashcroft wanted to summon her to tea once again some twenty-five years later, Ali would be there—with bells on.
I
t was late morning when Phoenix PD homicide detectives Larry Marsh and Hank Mendoza arrived at the crime scene in South Mountain Preserve. “What have we got?” Hank asked Abigail Jacobs, the patrol officer who along with her partner, Ed Whalen, had been the first officers to respond to Sybil Harriman’s desperate call to 911.
“We’ve got a dragger,” Officer Jacobs told them. “From what I’m seeing it looks like somebody slammed this poor guy’s left hand in a car door and then dragged him for the better part of a mile—through the parking lot and over several speed bumps. The bloody trail starts way back there by the park entrance.”
“Any ID?”
“Not so far. From what’s left of his clothing, it looks like maybe he was out jogging. We’ve got no ID and no cell phone, either.”
“Too bad,” Hank told her. “These days cell phones work better than anything. Any idea when it happened?”
“The witness found him here about ten
A.M
.”
“You’re sure it’s a him?”
“Yes, and whoever he is, he’s wearing the remains of a fairly expensive watch,” Abbie Jacobs replied. “A Patek Philippe, and that’s still working.”
“A what?” Larry Marsh said.
Hank Mendoza laughed. “The poor guy’s beaten to hell but the damned watch is still running. But then again, you wouldn’t know a Patek Philippe from a hole in the ground. You’re still wearing your Wal-Mart special Timex.”
“It works,” Larry replied. “And nobody’s tried to steal it.”
“Turns out nobody tried to steal this one, either,” Abbie said, looking down at the mangled hand. “And I for one don’t blame them.”
“Blood’s all dry,” Hank observed. “My guess is this happened sometime overnight. Isn’t the park supposed to be closed at night?”
“Supposed to be,” Officer Jacobs agreed with a shake of her head that left her thick, braided ponytail swinging back and forth. “But declaring it closed and keeping it closed are two different things,” she said. “Kids manage to get in here overnight all the time. Last Halloween we had to rescue a bunch of kids. They were here having a midnight kegger and ran afoul of a herd of javelina. The javelina were not amused.”
“So you patrol out here a lot then?” Hank asked.
Abbie Jacob nodded.
A van with the medical examiner’s logo on the door slowly made its way up the road and stopped nearby. Associate ME Todd Rangel, still munching the last of a Sonic burger, heaved his bulky frame out of the van.
“Sorry to be late to the party, boys and girls,” he said to the group gathered around the battered and bloodied corpse. “But a man’s gotta eat. What have I missed?”
“Not too many meals,” Hank muttered under his breath. Larry elbowed him in the ribs, warning him to silence. Of all the people in the county ME’s office, Todd Rangel won no popularity contests with the homicide cops who were obliged to work with him. The man was overbearing and self-important with a tendency for bossing people around. He was also uncommonly lazy. Todd Rangel’s idea of teamwork was to order someone else to do the heavy lifting.
“Officer Jacobs here says she thinks it’s a dragger,” Larry told the ME, moving aside to allow Rangel access to the corpse. “She says she followed a trail of blood for the better part of a mile from back toward the entrance.”
Shading his eyes with one hand, Rangel looked in the direction Larry was pointing. “I’ll check that out by car a little later,” he said.
Hank Mendoza shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Big surprise,” he mouthed to Abbie Jacobs, who barely managed to suppress a grin.
“Robbery?” Rangel asked.
“Could be, but probably not,” Larry said. “His wallet’s missing, but as you can see, the watch isn’t.”
Rangel nodded. “Or maybe it was too bloody and the perp didn’t want to risk taking it off.”
“Maybe.”
“You guys got what you need from right around here or can I go to work?” Rangel asked.
“Go ahead,” Hank said. “Knock yourself out.”
While they had been talking, several uniformed officers, including Abbie’s partner Ed Whalen and a crew of crime scene techs, had been moving along the roadway and using traffic cones to mark off the bloody strip in the pavement. Leaving Todd Rangel alone with the body, the detectives walked over to Whalen and the others. One of the techs was wielding a camera and snapping photos of bloodstained tire tracks. Another was carefully making plaster casts.
Suddenly, a few feet away, another crime scene tech raised a shout. “Hey, come look at this,” he said.
Led by Officer Whalen, the detectives hurried over to the edge of the pavement. There, on the shoulder of the road and partly concealed in a clump of dried grass, lay a shiny handgun.
“No rust,” the tech told them. “That means it hasn’t been here long.”
Whalen leaned down and threaded a pencil through the trigger guard and lifted the weapon out of the grass. “Smith & Wesson Chief’s Special,” he said.
“Has it been fired?” Detective Marsh asked.
Whalen raised the revolver to his nose and sniffed. “Not anytime recently,” he said.
“Bag it anyway,” Hank Mendoza ordered. “Just because no one’s fired it doesn’t mean it isn’t related.”
“Where’s the witness?” Larry asked.
“She wasn’t feeling too well,” Abbie replied. “I offered to call an ambulance and have her taken to a hospital to be checked out, but she said she just wanted to go home and lie down. I have her address in Awatukee. Want to stop by and see her?”
“Absolutely,” Detective Marsh told her. “Hank and I will pay her a visit and find out what she knows.”
“It won’t be much,” Abbie said. “She was just out walking and, like, found the body.”
Larry cringed. Cops who overused the word
like
tended to make him feel older than his years.
“Come on, Hank, let’s go and see if she’ll, like, tell us something.”
Hank rolled his eyes again. Fortunately, Officer Abbie Jacobs didn’t even, like, notice.
CUTLOOSEBLOG.COM
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
Sometimes, when you’re trying to get out of a hole, the first thing you have to do is stop digging. And maybe, in the course of the last few weeks, we’ve all fallen into the same rut and have been digging it deeper day by day. I know for sure
I’ve
fallen into a rut.
Yes, grief is important. It’s also tough. And depressing. And draining. And it’s very hard work. For weeks now I’ve felt as though both my feet were nailed to the floor. My mother has hinted that perhaps a visit to a doctor and a prescription of antidepressants might be in order, but I’m not there yet. Give me another few months. If I’m still in the same fog, maybe it will be time to reconsider.
But this is my blog, and for right now, I’m changing the subject.
When I was in high school, finances in our family were very tight—and I do mean
very
! I had wanted to go to college, and I had a GPA that made my going to college a reasonable assumption, but my family didn’t have the financial wherewithal to make that happen. Both my parents had lived through enough hard times that they were adamantly opposed to my taking on any kind of debt. Since student loans were out of the question, then, and since I wasn’t anywhere near National Merit Scholarship material, I had pretty well decided that I’d have to take time off from school long enough to earn some tuition money.
But then a miracle happened. Someone I didn’t even know offered me a scholarship—an unexpected scholarship, one I hadn’t heard of much less applied for. And that scholarship made all the difference.
When my friends went on to college that fall, so did I.
This morning I received an invitation to tea from the daughter of the woman who gave me that helping hand so long ago. And I’m going. This afternoon. As soon as I finish posting this, I’m going to shower and put on my makeup. I’ll dress up in my Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes and go there to say a much deserved thank you to someone whose unsolicited kindness opened up a world of opportunity for me.
I’m hoping that while I’m out there counting my blessings, maybe I’ll find that some of the clouds that have been obscuring my view of the sky come complete with silver linings.
posted 11:14
A.M
., by Babe
Ali was out of the shower, dressed, and mostly made up when the doorbell rang again. This time Kip Hogan, his customary Diamondback baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, stood waiting outside her front door. Beside him, resting on a four-wheeled dolly and swathed in a layer of quilted gray moving blankets, stood Ali’s fully restored bird’s-eye maple credenza.
“Hi, there,” Ali said, opening the door. “Come on in.”
“Afternoon, ma’am,” he returned, lifting the brim of his cap. “Sorry I couldn’t get here earlier. Something came up. Where do you want this?”
“Right here,” Ali told him, pointing. “In the entry. Are you sure you can move it by yourself? Chris will be home from school in a little while. I’m sure he’d be glad to help.”
Christopher, Ali’s son and current roommate, was a recent UCLA graduate and a first-year teacher at Sedona High School.
“No need, ma’am,” Kip told her. “I can handle it just fine on my own.”
Ali moved back out of the way and made room for Kip to bring the credenza inside. Now he was a familiar and far less scary character than he had been months earlier when Ali’s father had first brought the man home.
In the aftermath of one of the year’s final snowstorms, Ali’s father, Bob Larson, had taken his grandson snowboarding. While grandstanding for Chris, Bob had attempted a flawed turn that had resulted in a terrible spill. Bob’s injuries had been serious enough that he had been thrown into the hospital briefly and then confined to a wheelchair on a temporary basis. Needing help with the most basic of tasks and loathe to listen to Ali’s mother’s not undeserved blitz of “I told you so’s,” Bob had found Kip Hogan.
Ali had no idea how long Kip Hogan had been living rough in a snowbound homeless encampment up on the Mogollon Rim before Bob Larson dragged him into the Sugarloaf Café for all to see. Ali and her mother were accustomed to the fact that Bob Larson brought home various human “projects” on occasion. At first glance, Kip had definitely looked the part. He had been gaunt and grimy, unshaven and taciturn. Ali’s initial expectation had been that he’d eat a square meal or two and then be on his way. That was what had happened to any number of Bob Larson’s new friends, but Kip had defied the odds. Ali’s father had been off the injured list for months now, but Kip had stayed on, staying clean and sober. He had made himself indispensable, helping Ali’s parents with chores around both the house and the restaurant.
Months of eating decent food had put flesh on the man’s scrawny frame. Still, Ali was surprised to see Kip was strong enough to singlehandedly wrestle the credenza off the dolly and move it into place. When he finished, he stood back and admired his handiwork. Then, frowning, he removed a hankie from his pocket and used it to wipe a speck of invisible dust off the refinished top. After stuffing the hankie back in his pocket, he ran a single finger along the smooth grain of the wood.
“Thank you so much,” Ali said admiringly. “It’s absolutely beautiful.”
Kip looked at her and grinned. In all the time Ali had known the man, this was the first occasion she ever remembered seeing his face with an expression even vaguely approximating a smile. And that’s when she realized what was so different about him on this particular day. Kip’s nose still looked like it had been broken half a dozen different times in as many directions, but the gaps where teeth had been missing had now been filled by a partial plate. He looked years younger—and almost civilized.
“Never tried my hand at this kind of work before,” he said, self-consciously erasing the unaccustomed grin. “I couldn’t have done it if your dad hadn’t showed me how.”
“You’re right,” Ali agreed. “Dad’s a good teacher, but I know you’re the one who did all the work, and I’m so grateful.”
Nodding, Kip picked up the dolly. “You’re welcome,” he said. “I’d best get going.”
Ali watched while he loaded the dolly back into Bob Larson’s beloved 1970s vintage Bronco. As Kip drove away, Ali remembered her father mentioning that someone he knew up in Flagstaff was thinking about starting a low-cost dental clinic. While Kip had been busy repairing the water damage to Ali’s credenza, Bob Larson had been busy repairing Kip.
Ali’s scholarship from Anna Lee Ashcroft had seemed to her like a bolt out of the blue. Now she wondered if maybe it hadn’t been an example of karma in action. Bob Larson had spent a lifetime evening the score for that unexpected scholarship with his own countless random acts of kindness to people less fortunate than he.
With her blond hair freshly blow-dried and with a coat of properly applied makeup on her face, Ali left her house half an hour later to drive to Arabella’s place on Manzanita Hills Road. The sky overhead seemed bluer and the rock-lined canyons redder than she remembered seeing them in months. Maybe the curtain of gray that surrounded her was starting to lift just a little.